


The Perfect Present

by ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21919033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff/pseuds/ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff
Summary: Farrier replaces the stress of flying with the stress of buying.
Relationships: Collins/Farrier (Dunkirk)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16
Collections: 'Holidays'





	The Perfect Present

Weather had thwarted all attempts to fly this winter. Thick snow blanketed Britain, and the air base was no exception. Snowflakes fell fast and freezing, clogging up noses with the thickness of the air. Scarves and gloves warmed the crew as best they could. Unfortunately, that did not stop the cold creeping in. Groans would erupt from everyone whenever so much as a door to the outside world was opened. All windows were sealed, all bodies were covered in layers, all

One of the only positives: the same could be said for the Nazis who were off facing the Russians. Idiots.

Since there was very little cause for happiness, the airmen of the base had opted to create their own Christmas cheer. Secret Santa would take place in the mess hall, a week from now. All those who wanted to participate had scrawled their names on a scrap of paper and folded them into Flight Lieutenant Morrison’s cap. With a quick wiggle, the papers were well mixed, indistinguishable from one another to avoid any cheating.

Squadron Leader Farrier had drawn Collins out of the cap. Second to pick, the name in a neat printed font was the best thing he’d read in months. His thrill lasted but a moment, for it was then that he realised he would have to buy Collins a present.

And Flying Officer Collins was very hard to buy for.

One might think he was someone you could read like an open book. He was; if that open book was written in a foreign language the reader could not understand, then scripted into code which could be cracked if the reader followed a trail of clues on some kind of treasure hunt.

Farrier sat down in his bunk and began to brainstorm what his route through the local town shops would be. With a price limit of ten shillings, what could he get for this man?

* * *

Two days before the Secret Santa deadline was the perfect day to avoid Flying Officer Hughes’ final attempts to decipher who had who by the time came around. The only thing that could tempt Farrier into listening was if he could know who Collins had. Farrier rather hoped that Collins had him, just so he could see what he would consider for him to be a suitable gift. It would mean they would once again be stuck together, isolated on the side while everyone else was in their own circle, but this was far more enjoyable diagram than the other one they were in.

But no, he had to focus on getting his own gift sorted out. Currently he was inspecting a shaving kit. Unrolled in the display window, it was a sleeve that held a razor, three replacement blades, a bottle of shaving cream, and another type of cream to soothe the cheeks from irritation. Blueberry scented.

Farrier lifted the razor up and admired the shine of the light on the metal. It was with a sinking stomach that Farrier acknowledge its appeal was targeted at himself, and not Collins.

Perhaps a new soap from this store would suffice instead.

Although Collins was very particular about his sandalwood soap, and what if he had sensitive skin? God Farrier had never asked.

At least he knew that Collins had no food allergies, he could just go to the tuck shop and get a bag of bon bons. Apple would be nice, like sour plums. Or why not just get him sour plums? It would be hard for Collins to guess that Farrier was the giver, that could be fun, watching him dither about with his options.

But he wanted this present to be special, not just a cop out that anyone could have gotten.

Replacing the razor in its slot, Farrier mumbled thanks to the shopkeeper and exited, the jangling of the bell a bright cheer he did not share. He almost mocked it but held his tongue as he passed by a couple travelling in the opposite direction. He kicked up the snow, soaking his trousers to match his nose. His toes felt like blocks of ice were forming between the gaps.

He passed more shops, his ears losing any sense of feeling with his fingers on the same path. His face was soon buried into his scarf.

His journey brought him to pass a friend, Squadron Leader Acaster, who was certainly doing the same as him. They conversed about shops they’d been in, how anything within budget did not seem to be worth buying.

“That’s the fun of it though, is it not?” said Acaster who then nudged Farrier with his elbow, “We are all doing it for a laugh.”

But Farrier did not want to do it for a laugh. He yearned to just hit this nail on the head, to get Collins the perfect present. As if that was going to be possible and also be easy to wrap.

He had to get a card too! Or a label, label would be easier to hide, and he did not think that anyone else was going to buy a card.

As Acaster diverted off towards the shoes shop – “everyone always needs more boot polish” – Farrier continued en route to complete a loop of the shops.

The last one in the row was one shop Farrier had rarely given the time of day in his rounds. It just so happened that his eyes lingered on the shop a little longer than usual, aching too much to flit back to the pavement.

And it was right there in the centre of the shop window. Something so perfect for Collins that Farrier had to restrain his glee to approach the shop cautiously, like a predator stalking its prey. Still repressing the relief, he headed into the shop to see if this present was within his budget.

* * *

Everyone was sat in the mess hall. Eagerness warmed up their spirits as, one by one, presents were passed out to their recipients.

Collins waited for two names: his own and his Secret Santa’s. Fidgeting in his spot, he had never lost that childlike glee for Christmas, and he was pleased to not have to mask it while in the company of his fellow man this time. His knees bounced as Acaster crowed at his new book.

As it happened, Collins’ name was called out first and soon a brown paper parcel, tied up in string with his name printed on a little label, landed in his lap. It was in a box, that was for sure. Flat and square dimensions, the easiest shape to wrap so no clues there. But the side was marked “FRAGILE” which filled Collins with glee because that meant it was something interesting at least.

It was with trembling hands that he shelled his present, though only if one squinted could his shaking in his fingers be seen. And if that was spotted, then he would chalk it up to the weather.

“Ah, a box, how did you know?” He cracked, lifting up the black box for all to see. A “ooo” swept around the room, the lads chuckling but still leaning in to find out what the real gift was.

The string loosened and fell from the paper. Collins eased off the lid, really milking the “FRAGILE” aspect of his gift. But he later appreciated that he had taken his time for a quick unwrapping would not have prepared him for what sat inside the box.

A small silver instrument, intricate with cogs and gears linked together, delicately unfurled the tissue paper about it. Still as a statue it was, to be brought to life by his touch on the crank. The instrument could lie in Collins’ palm, the crank just big enough to be held by his thumb and finger.

“What is it?”

“I think it plays music.” Collins gingerly lifted it out and held it out to show the others. Another wave of “oooo” followed as he pinched the crank to turn it.

There was no song. Just a low click from the two drums rolling the gears together.

“I think you’re meant to use the paper, mate,” Hughes pointed into the box.

Sure enough, camouflaged into the tissue, was a long strip of folded paper. Placing down the instrument, Collins treated the paper with the same care, gently unbending it until it was all flat on the floor.

“Go on then! Play it for us!”

“This way,” Collins muttered to himself, his tongue sticking out between his lips and his forehead creased in concentration as he delicately placed the paper between the two drums. Again, he began to turn the crank’s handle.

A whimsical tinkling filled the room. Such a loud song for a tiny machine, it sang proudly with each note hit beautifully. As he turned, Collins observed the scale hitting its note in accordance to which hole had been punched into the paper. Sheet music. Of course.

“I can tell you’re going to annoy us a lot with that,” sarcastically lifted from one of the other lads on the opposite side of the circle. A little joke that led to a little laughter and Collins could not stop smiling. What a gorgeous gift.

“Ok, who got me this? It’s wonderful!” He looked around the group.

“We’ve got to wait until everyone’s opened theirs before we guess, mate.”

Bittersweet was the end of the music that Collins played for his fellow airmen. The end of the paper dropped from the instrument, and Collins folded it up as Hughes’ name was called out. A long cylinder was passed along to him.

Collins replaced his gift back in the box for safe keeping, hugged it to his chest. His restless eye skimmed across everyone in the circle, but no one really stood out as the person who could have presented him with such a treasure. Except Farrier. But if Farrier had him, surely, he would not be so obvious about it.

He would find out soon enough, just as he would find out what Farrier thought of his own Secret Santa gift. Collins really hoped Farrier liked his new shaving kit.


End file.
